


The Love Song of Pavus' Dog

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boys Kissing, Falling In Love, Hipsters, M/M, Marijuana, Pavlov is there too, T.S Eliot is mentioned a lot, antique store, hipster references, super brief drug mention, there's sex at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cullen works at an antique shop, Dorian reads T.S Eliot, and Cullen struggles with the inertia of life and indecisiveness.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>You really like that poem, don’t you?” Cullen asks. He peers over Dorian’s shoulder to watch him mouth the words over and over to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“It’s tragic, really,” Dorian says in a thoughtful voice, unwinding his scarf to reveal his tattoo. The sword had always been a favorite of Cullen's and he clenches his fist to refrain from touching it. “The man just wastes his entire life drowning in indecision, never really moving forward out of fear," Dorian continues.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love Song of Pavus' Dog

**Author's Note:**

> PHEW. So this was inspired in part by starfleetspectre from Tumblr and her Hipster AU. I meant to just write a silly little ficlet but NOPE. Here's 4k words instead. The title is something my sleep-deprived brain thinks to be clever. It mashes up T.S Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and Pavlov's experiments with dogs and classical conditioning with an extra pun because of Dorian's last name haa haaa haaaaaa /ollies into the sun
> 
> Alright, but I hope you enjoy this because I sorta wanna gouge my eyes out now if I'm forced to look at it any longer. Any and all comments/kudos are appreciate as always, and I love you all!
> 
> Oh, also warning for my shitty original poetry that I made poor Cullen write. WHOOPS.
> 
> Edit: I forgot to mention that I based this off my college town. Welcome to hipster hell. Here's your free record player and organic fair trade green tea. I will never admit I'm a hipster, but I will wear thrift store flannel, discuss dead poets in local coffee shops, and visit record stores (we have 2).

They don’t really need that bell. Cullen has assured Varric a great deal of times he can, without a doubt, see the door from where he stands. And even in the far corners of the antique shop he can usually hear the gaggle of customers bumbling in, ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘ahh-ing’ at whatever they have out for display.

But no.

He continues to be subjected to the jingling and clanking of some homemade door ornament from some friend of Varric’s he refuses to elaborate upon. Every time some half-interested teenager asking for mason jars or record players stumbles in, his ears are assaulted to the clumsy clash of bells.

For what it’s worth, their store is at least situated off the main road where most of the traffic occurs, tucked quietly on some side street named after some tree like Oak or Ash or Elm. Many of their customers are of the sort that genuinely care to stroll around their quaint, earthy town, soaking up the history they have to offer.

It’s really only on weekends that the blasted door swings open freely and without care, potential customers leaving more often than not empty handed.

Cullen can’t complain though. Varric offered him a job as a friend, and the work is good, the pay is decent, and, just as a familiar figure walks through the door, Cullen is often visited by friends of his.

Josephine’s hair is braided over the shoulder, dark strands sticking out in a way that looks entirely intentional in that effortless way she’s mastered so well. She’s donning a dark blue beanie that matches her jean overalls, a large grey flannel on top of it all. She gives a small wave as she walks up to the counter, and Cullen can see someone trailing in behind her, stopping to admire a small section of books up front.

“Business looks good today,” she greets, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee from the cafe down the road. Cullen takes it without asking and sips at it, scrunching up his face. Josephine laughs. “Too bitter for your tastes?”

“You could at least add some soy milk,” he frowns, handing it back. “But yeah,” he shrugs, leaning on the counter, “it always looks good until you’re doing the books at the end of the day and see all you’ve sold were some vintage stamps.” He scoffs. “Most of those are just reprints from the late nineties.”

Josephine hums in amusement as the man who followed her in walks up and slings a friendly arm around her shoulder, waving around a book excitedly.

“They have a classic anthology of Eliot’s!” he exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. The first thing Cullen notices is the man’s frankly impressive mustache adorning his lip, the ends curled up just so. Following that is a gold septum piercing in his nose that glitters in the light, and Cullen finds his gaze being pulled along down the the column of the man’s neck, a tattoo of a sword revealing itself. Like a well-composed work of art, he follows the lines and colors of this stranger as if their body were a canvas, several other tattoos decorating his exposed arms and a few peeking out from under his low cut tanktop.

Cullen doesn’t even realize he’s staring until the man turns towards him.

“And who do we have here?”

His gaze is dark and intense. Swaths of energy and charisma Cullen could hardly ever dream of keeping up with radiate off of him.

“Oh, um,” Cullen fumbles with the pen he’d been playing with. “I’m Cullen. Nice to meet you.”

“Dorian Pavus. The pleasure, I’m sure, is all yours,” he teases as Josephine gives him a small shove.

“Friend of Josie’s, I take it?”

“What astute observation skills you have there. You really know how to pick friends, Josie,” Dorian grins, turning to her.

Josephine giggles. “Yes, well, I am friends with you. So be careful of what you say.”

Dorian waves a hand through the air, fanning the conversation away. He struck Cullen as the sort of man who commands the world around him, never letting it bend him in anyway he didn’t see fitting.

“Ah, before I forget, I saw some rather fetching tea sets over there on the way in.” He gestures towards the left half of the store. “Perhaps you’ll find something less breakable and more Sera proof.”

“Sera proof?” Cullen inquires.

Josephine gives him a bemused smile. “Sera broke my last tea set. The orange floral one.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Josephine shrugs. “What’s done is done,” she says in that optimistic way of hers. “I’ll be back in a moment. Try not to scare poor Cullen too much, Dorian,” Josephine grins before walking away.

Dorian turns his intense gaze back on Cullen who stands helplessly under it.

“So you’re a fan of T.S Eliot?” Cullen blurts out, the change in topic sounding forced to his ears. He grimaces internally at himself. Dorian takes it in stride however.

“ _Do I dare / disturb the universe? / In a-_ ”

“ _-minute there is time / For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse,_ ” Cullen finishes with ease. Dorian folds his arms and huffs, smiling at a vaguely smug Cullen. Those dark, kohl-lined eyes of his are trained on him attentively.

“Pretty _and_ well-versed in literature,” Dorian hums, looking off in the distance towards Josephine. “I might just have to start frequenting this little store more often.”

“Only if you promise to buy something. We get enough penny-pinching stragglers as it is.”

“I’ve never been very good at keeping promises, though perhaps I could stop by to simply admire the finer things you have to offer.” Cullen flushes at Dorian’s words as he slides his gaze back on him like a cat honing in on a mouse.

“Well, I- I, suppose that would be fine.” He smiles a little too wide, tongue too clumsy in his mouth.

Dorian eyes him, mouth moving to form some new inquiry, but he catches Josephine approaching and both men can feel it retreat back into his throat to be replaced with, “I assume you’ve found what you needed then, my dear?” Any infantile makings of a moment disperse, the words slipping back into the pages of Eliot.

Josephine nods and holds up a new tea set; rosy pink porcelain with tender little white flowers painted on the side. Cullen rings her up, wrapping the set up in newspaper and taping it, laughing distractedly at the pair’s banter. He points to the book Dorian’s holding.

“Are you going to get that?”

Dorian weighs it for a moment, biting at his bottom lip. “I’m afraid not today, but surely it’ll be a great excuse to stop back in another time, no?”

Cullen chuckles and downplays his agreement, sliding Josephine’s tea set into a paper bag.

When they finally leave the store, Cullen settles on the stool behind the counter, swinging back and forth, left and right, never really sitting still.

Never really able to wipe the grin off his face for the rest of the day.

He keeps the copy of T.S Eliot’s poetry behind the counter.

Just in case.

 

-

 

Dorian reappears two days later. And then three days after that. And then again the week after that. Cullen isn’t able to pinpoint Dorian’s visits at first, but soon enough his erraticism flattens into something more predictable. Cullen learns that Dorian works at a vinyl shop on the other side of town, which, is realistically only about a five minute walk. The fact they haven’t run into one another before baffles them both, especially when they find out that they frequent the same food co-op and farmer’s market.

But for Cullen, Tuesdays and Fridays quickly become something he looks forward to, bell always chiming at the same time (thirteen minutes after five, approximately). When Dorian first starts coming he always has an excuse ready to roll off his tongue (“I heard you had exquisite brass utensils in stock that I must take a look at,” or “A little bird told me that you were having a sale today?”) But as the weeks wear on into the end of summer and the beginnings of autumn, Dorian drops the facade and simply strolls in with a cocky stride, sliding up on the counter where Cullen balances the books.

Without being asked, he more than once holds out half of his organic tuna sandwich on rye to Cullen until he takes it, talking animatedly in between mouthfuls; legs swinging, ringed fingers tapping.

And if Cullen notices that Dorian starts taking soy milk in the coffee he shares, he doesn’t say anything.

“You should stop by my store some time,” Dorian says one day.

Cullen makes a noise of agreement, not looking up from where he was putting in the total sales of the day. “I would like that,” he mutters.

“Is that the only thing you like?” Dorian teases, nudging Cullen in the shoulder to get his attention. Cullen just pulls Dorian’s beanie down over his eyes in response, snorting to himself as Dorian squawks about his hair being messed up.

For the most part, Dorian does most of the talking. This is more than fine by Cullen who prefers to lend his ear rather than his mouth, but Dorian is never a greedy conversationalist. Dramatic, boastful, and over the top? Without a doubt. But when Cullen decides to wrestle up an anecdote, Dorian goes silent, training his full attention on Cullen like he were listening to some famous storyteller on a stage; eyes filled with genuine interest that chokes Cullen up sometimes, hands neatly folded in his lap. He laughs at the all the funny parts, frowns at the sad ones, and outright beams when Cullen finishes.

Cullen finds himself a little breathless more often than not towards the end. Whether it’s from his uncharacteristically enthusiastic storytelling or perhaps something else he’s never entirely sure.

It’s well into October when Cullen realizes he looks forward to the bell that he used to detest so much, head snapping towards the door every time it chimes. He doesn’t give it much thought, doesn’t think it necessary, but of course Varric feels the need to point it out.

Cullen’s holding a typewriter in his hands when the bell rings. He nearly drops the damn thing to look towards the door, a greeting ready to burst from his lips, but he swallows it down when an elderly couple shuffle inside. No doubt milling around looking for some relics of their youth. He deflates and hefts the typewriter onto the shelf, dusting his hands before returning to the counter where Varric is watching him. He looks pleased. Cullen frowns.

“Do you know anything about Pavlov, Curly?”

Cullen squints at him. “The strange man with the dogs and the meat?”

“And bells,” Varrics adds, “don’t forget the bells.” He motions with his head towards the door. “Basically, this guy would ring a bell every time he fed the dogs. Eventually, once he’d done this enough times, the dogs would start salivating at the just the sound of the bell- regardless of whether there was food or not.”

Cullen eyes him warily.

“What are you saying?” he asks cautiously. He crosses his arms just as the door opens again and his head snaps up. A mother with her daughter. Varric snickers beside him.

It clicks.

“I am _not_ a dog,” Cullen says petulantly.

“Look, all I’m saying is-”

“I don’t care to hear what you have to say.”

“But-”

“Not a word, Varric.”

A beat passes before the door opens again. Cullen instinctively looks up, beaming at the sight of Dorian before catching himself.

“Pavus’ Dog,” Varric stage whispers before slapping Cullen on the back and walking away.

Cullen groans as a puzzled Dorian approaches.

“You look particularly dour today, my friend,” he says, taking his place on the counter. “Varric pulling out the stories about your noodle hair phase again?” Cullen frowns at the memory of Varric scrolling through his phone.

“Thankfully no, it’s not that bad,” Cullen says, “though he did just compare me to a dog.”

“Well you do have two dog related tattoos, if I do recall.” He hooks a finger in Cullen’s shirt collar and tugs down, revealing the rest of his paw print tattoos that crawl down his neck and onto his collar bone. “So I thought you of all people would take that as a compliment.”

Cullen snorts despite himself. “He said you were Pavlov and I was the dog because of that damned bell over our door.”

Dorian gives him a filthy smirk. “Oh? I’ve never had a pet before. Shall I get you a leash and collar then? Perhaps some toys for good measure... I’d even let you sleep at the foot of my bed if you’re a good boy.” Dorian winks, ruffling Cullen’s hair.

“I- um,” he fumbles, “I should really-”

Dorian laughs sharp and loud. Cullen relaxes.

“How have you managed to make it this far in life?”

Cullen huffs. “I should be asking you that. I’m surprised you haven’t had your ass kicked with how shamelessly you flirt with anything that moves.”

“Oh it’s happened a few times, don’t you worry your pretty face about that,” Dorian says, tone light, but there’s a strained sound to it. Cullen frowns. On impulse he reaches for Dorian’s wrist.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t-”

“And what exactly are you apologizing for? It’s not as if you were the one to set idiotic brutes after me.” Dorian gives him a muted smile.

“It’s called sympathy, Dorian,” Cullen levels.

“Hm, I don’t think I’m familiar with that concept,” Dorian teases. “Perhaps you could help me become better acquainted with it.” He twists his wrist out of Cullen’s grip, and for a brief moment Cullen panics that he’d overstepped before Dorian hooks their pinkies together. From a distance it would appear as if their hands were just resting close to one another.

It’s a decidedly understated gesture in regards to Dorian, but it illuminates something in Cullen like a sparkler in the middle of a hot summer night.

They stay like that for a while, Cullen scratching away at a notepad.

 

-

 

It’s a couple of weeks later that Dorian decides to purchase the collection of T.S Eliot poems. He leafs through it behind the counter, a warm presence in the dropping winter temperatures beside Cullen as their shoulders brush. Dorian is wrapped up in a red flannel jacket today, a ragged bomber hat atop his head, and he wears boots that look more expensive than Cullen’s entire paycheck. A wool scarf is wrapped around his neck. His dark face is just the slightest bit rosy against the nipping winds that drove away most of the other customers.

“You really like that poem, don’t you?” Cullen asks. He peers over Dorian’s shoulder to watch him mouth the words over and over to _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock._

“It’s tragic, really,” Dorian says in a thoughtful voice, unwinding his scarf to reveal his tattoo. The sword had always been a favorite of Cullen's and he clenches his fist to refrain from touching it. “The man just wastes his entire life drowning in indecision, never really moving forward out of fear," Dorian continues. "Can’t really blame him though, can you? We’ve all been guilty of it.” Dorian shrugs. “We’re all a little Prufrock-y in our own way,” he chuckles, but it sounds hollow and cold like the streets outside.

 

 _And indeed there will be time,_   
_To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’_

 

The words echo in Cullen's head.

He wants to move but finds himself rooted in his spot.

 

-

 

He still reacts to the bell. It’s become an ingrained habit at this point, and Cullen curses himself everytime he glances towards the chiming door, tail wagging with anticipation. Dorian starts to come around more towards the end of the day, staying longer as Cullen closes up for the night, sharing his kombucha and kale salads and a brightly lit cigarette outside.

One time it isn’t a cigarette. Dorian puts the thing to Cullen’s lips and says in a low voice, “suck,” and so velvet is Dorian’s tone, Cullen does it on command. He coughs and sputters, eyes wide with panic that he hasn’t felt for months. Dorian gives him a concerned look, apologies spilling out as he rubs Cullen’s back.

“No, no it’s just-” Cullen freezes as a car passes by, headlights too bright, too bright, boring into his skull before he regains himself. “I wasn’t expecting…” He swallows thickly. “I had an ex.” Cullen states in a hushed voice. “He, uh,” he goes to rub at the back of his neck, but Dorian catches his arm and links his through it like an anchor. “I was in a bad place with him. I got really involved with a lot of drugs. Bad things.” Cullen shivers. He forces a weary smile in Dorian’s direction. “I’ve really only been entirely clean for just over a year. It just took me by surprise is all.” He plucks the joint from Dorian’s fingers.

“You don’t have to-”

Cullen inhales slow and deep, savoring the burn.

He’s missed this.

Dorian watches, entranced.

“I don’t think one joint is going to kill me,” he says as he releases the breath. He’s in control. Cullen can feel it now. It’s been months since he’s last been around Samson. Dorian for once remains silent as Cullen offers him the joint.

They stand there in the dark, wintry evening outside the shop. Arms linked. Watching the snow pile up around them like a fortress.

Their breaths blow smoke hot and steamy into the chilly air.

 

-

 

Cullen thinks about the first day he and Dorian had met more and more as winter’s harsh edge grows crueler, skies bleak and maddening. He wonders what it would’ve been like to shove the man up against the bookshelf and kiss him senseless.

He wonders how Dorian would’ve reacted.

He wonders how he would’ve reacted.

If he’d been able to muster up the courage at all.

It’s in that void of time between late night and early morning that he muses upon how soft Dorian would feel against his body, the taste of his sweat as Cullen bites and licks at his neck, their bodies moving in tandem with the same innate rhythm that is found between stanzas of flowing poetry. He bites back a groan at how Dorian always smells sweetly of clove oil and mint and cigarettes, lips pulled tight in one of those teasing smirks, face flushed, skin hot, breaths short, hips rocking-

A sucked in breath.

Cullen thinks about it a lot these days.

Specifically when he’s laying in bed, hand trailing down his stomach.

He lets out a string of soft noises, like little prayers, in the dark of his room.

 

-

 

His life has become condensed. A repetition of thoughts and desires and values stirred together into a comfortable humdrum of existence. He beats the same drum, walks the same paths, places the same bets. Too self-conscious to pour the whole thing out the window, to break the glass it sits in and grind the shards under the heel of his boot.

Cullen knows this and yet-

And yet.

He fidgets.

Cullen stares down at the balance book. They’ve only sold some old earrings and a shotglass today. Varric is milling around in the back of the store, taking stock of what they’ll be putting on display for December.

It’s raining today. The door is closed. Dorian is late.

Cullen is filled with a nervous energy that manifests in foot-tapping and store-pacing and shelf restocking. Varric tells him “Relax, Sparkler’s probably just caught up doing something else.” Cullen grimaces. But Dorian is always here on Thursdays.

The bell only rings thrice that day, and none of them are the lithe figure he seeks.

 

 _And indeed there will be time,_   
_To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’_

 

He trudges home in the sloppy weather after work, hands jammed into his pockets, uncaring of the cruel rain and cold mud that mar his clothes and skin like blood from a battlefield.

That night he dreams of intangible things, putting pen to napkin the next morning over his bagel. He crumples it in panic as bells chime, knocking it on the floor.

Of course it’s not Dorian. He only comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Cullen grumbles and takes another bite of his breakfast.

He picks up the napkin from the floor and shoves it into his pocket.

 

-

 

Dorian shows up next week at the end of Cullen’s shift. The bell clanks and jingles its familiar sound and Cullen looks up from where he faithfully resides behind the counter, waiting, always waiting. But today the waiting holds a new weight to it.

Dorian hops up on the counter as Cullen finishes calculating the sales for the day, the former already chatting away. His hair is damp from spring rain and he hooks his pinky through Cullen’s again in the way that’s become custom for them. When there’s a lull in the conversation Cullen sets the pen down. Dorian watches him with curiosity.

“Do you remember,” he starts, voice trembling. He clears his throat. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“Well I should hope so- anything involving me is typically worth remembering,” he jokes. But Cullen remains stoic with nerves. Dorian doesn’t continue.

“I mean, the poetry. T.S Eliot.”

“Ah, well you should’ve been more specific, then my friend,” Dorian says. “ _And indeed there will be time, / To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’ / Time to turn back and descend the stair, / With a bald spot in the middle of my hair, / They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’_ ” He recites instantly, ruffling Cullen’s locks towards the last line which elicits a grin from him.

“ _My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to my chin,_ ” he chimes in, hooking two fingers into Dorian’s low cut collar, pulling him down slowly. For all his bumbling with spoken words, poetry has always been the language he prefers to communicate in. He can barely hear his own voice over the rapturous beating of his heart, spurring his rhythmic recitation on. “ _My necktie, rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—_ ”

“ _They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’_ ” Dorian cuts in. “ _Do I dare / disturbed the universe? / In a-_ ”

“ _-minute there is time / For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse,_ ” Cullen finishes, their noses almost brushing. He resolves that he doesn’t want to make any more decisions and revisions that a minute will reverse.

The sky breaks with a hissing rain that hides them from the world. Dorian’s lips are sweet with fresh poetry as they kiss with a long reserved desire that had been tucked away on shelves and in between the pages of books.

The bell chimes as a gust of wind presses jealously against the locked door, but Cullen doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t need to.

 

-

 

That night his moans are swallowed by the storm outside, breath beating in his lungs like the way rain beats against a boat at sea. Dorian is the flash of lightning whereas Cullen is the lightning rod; their mouths are quick and slick and hot against one another’s one moment, ebbing into something smoother and slower the next, savoring the taste of long sought after flesh as they rock against each other with desperate whines. Cullen licks at Dorian’s neck, biting down to suck hard where ink marks his skin and he bucks his hips up, the rhythm building within him with a tenuous force.

Dorian rolls them over in the mess that is Cullen’s bed, slipping down to unfasten his jeans so he can slip a hand in, fingers massaging his hardness with deft fingers. It isn’t long before Cullen is working him open with a hushed sort of awe, the dwindling moonlight sneaking out from the stormy sky casting Dorian as a silhouette who sits upon his lap, an apparition of things he’s long ached for. He almost fears that any moment he’ll wake up.

He throws his head back as Cullen adds another finger, greedily lapping up every sight and sound and sensation he can grab onto.

“Please,” he purrs, nails digging hard into Cullen’s chest, leaving raw red marks that he wants the world to see. Cullen removes his fingers as told and strokes Dorian a few times, entranced and utterly in love with the way the man moves upon his hips, squirming with lust. He works him onto his own cock with a hiss and Dorian sits there, panting, breathing, simply feeling. Cullen bites his lip at the sensation; tight heat that travels to his chest, clenching tight with pride.

Dorian lifts his hips, rocking their joined bodies at a tantalizingly slow pace, but his control is like a dam breaking under pressure; he tries to keep it steady, but Cullen can see the little fractures growing; a shuddering thrust, a shameless moan. Soon Dorian is fucking himself in earnest on Cullen’s cock, hips dipping and hands grasping as Cullen holds him. His own control is far from perfect and he grunts a warning, hips spasming as he forces his eyes to stay open, to imprint upon the backs of his eyelids the sight of Dorian; so beautiful, too beautiful for words upon a page to ever capture.

He spills over and strokes Dorian’s flushed cock as he does so, willing him to follow, willing him to go hand in hand with Cullen to disturb the universe.

 

-

 

Dorian finds the napkin in his pocket later that night. Cullen blanches as he starts to recite the messy lines scrawled upon it in the stillness of the room. He sits naked in the bed, covers thrown over his lap and Cullen thrown over his shoulders, arms wound around his stomach.

“Dorian-”

But it’s useless. He lets the man read as he pushes past Cullen’s weak protest.

 

 _“We savor the darkened silence of_   
_an unborn dawn as I_   
_trace over the_   
_arch of your brow,_   
_quietly admiring the_   
_contours,_   
_slopes,_   
_and shifting shadows of_   
_your untroubled face,”_

Cullen runs the back of his knuckles across Dorian’s face as he reads, smiling with embarrassment into his neck. His voice glides across the imperfectly formed words, pouring it like honey into Cullen’s ears. He almost manages to make Cullen’s poetry sound bearable.

 _“I whisper how you’re_   
_poetry waiting to happen,_   
_words brimming_   
_with your existence_   
_eager to fall across my_   
_coffee-stained notebooks_   
_at 4am_   
_as I try to capture the_   
_tangible curve of your_   
_smoothened jaw,”_

Dorian turns his head to press a small kiss to Cullen’s hand that strokes at the angles of his face lovingly.

 _“the taut stretch of_   
_fresh skin over your_   
_scabbed knuckles_   
_(not because you’re_   
_a fighter, but because_   
_you’re clumsy and had_   
_fallen off your bike.)”_

Dorian lets out a laugh here, quietly protesting “That only happened once!” Cullen reaches for his free hand where the knuckles are still injured and presses them to his lips.

 _“I feel the curve of_   
_your smile,_   
_how the corners of your_   
_naturally sleepy eyes_   
_crinkle with_   
_bashful delight_   
_and I-”_

Dorian stops, which catches Cullen’s attention. “Well that’s a rather disappointing ending,” Dorian finally says. Cullen looks down at the crumpled napkin and lets out a small ‘ah,’ of recognition. His alarm clock had woken him up the day he’d written that.

“Well that’s what happened,” he says with a shrug, nuzzling his face into Dorian’s shoulder.

“If I may suggest a better ending?”

“Be my guest,”

Dorian turns around in Cullen’s arms and presses him down on the bed, kissing him hard and slow and tangible.

Cullen makes a noise of contentment against his lips, thinking that, yes, this seemed to be a much better ending.


End file.
